


heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter

by Waypaststrange



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types, Carmilla - J. Sheridan Le Fanu
Genre: F/F, I'm Sorry, I'm continuing this for my sanity, featuring carmilla sadly playing piano, musical vignettes, others are not, some are canon-ish, this hurt me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waypaststrange/pseuds/Waypaststrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes about Carmilla playing music for Laura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lieder ohne Worte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which playing an old piece reminds Carmilla of what was and what is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born of me listening to Mendelssohn's Op. 19 No. 4 over and over and over again.  
> I strongly recommend listening to it before/during reading because otherwise it'll make a whole lot less sense and I'm not sure it makes sense anyway.

You regret missing, among other things, getting to meet Romantic composers. While their flowery, flourishing melodies swept the globe, you were pent-up in your cage below the earth, senses unaccustomed to anything but the unfathomable dark, the yawning, claustrophobic silence, the cloying metallic tang of blood, enveloping your sinuses so fully you nearly choked.

 You never imagined such beautiful music was being composed six feet above your head. You had almost forgotten music entirely.

When you finally surfaced, Mozart’s shadow was receding from Austria, and you could not recognize all the new names.

Where people had once touted Haydn, Beethoven, Bach, now there was Tchaikovsky, Saint-Saens, Chopin, Liszt, Debussy, Mendelssohn.

 

Your fingers ached when you saw a piano again. The Von Karnsteins, though your fond, faint memories of them were mostly happiness-tinged, demanded a daughter who could hold her own in society. You remember being seated at the mansion’s nine-foot grand when your feet could scarcely reach the pedals while a sour-featured instructor berated your bad technique and unwillingness to stick to fingerings.

But this felt different.

It took some stumbling through simple etudes and scales before your fingers could once again remember what they’d been trained to do, but the feeling of playing Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 for the first time made it all worth it.

You utterly fell in love with the Romantic Period, despite the sinking awareness that you had returned to the world just a little too late. You cried unabashedly the first time you heard Le Cygne from Les Carnival des Animaux, the cellist soaring over and yet still savoring every single note. Less than five years later, Saint-Saens was dead.

While Satie, Kabalevsky, and Bartok were pulling the world farther and farther from recognizable melody, into the strange and bizarrely beautiful, you were still trying to catch up on all you had missed.

And while your skill grew, fingers flying faster and faster along the black-and-white ivory grin of the piano keys, you never forgot your love for the simpler things.

You fell hard for Mendelssohn’s Lieder ohne Worte- Songs Without Words. Easy to play, difficult to master, they were called, and master them you did.

In between Fantasie-Impromptus and Waltzes that made your hands cramp, you would still find yourself drawn back to those little pieces, no more than a page or two, a couple minutes at most but enough to lift your spirits.

 

But time passed and you were soon swept up again in Maman’s rituals, and as times changed she got craftier about securing victims.

You hated using piano to lure in girls, but you dared not oppose Maman outright.

Not again.

Time passed and you shoved your love for piano onto the backburner in lieu of subtly ruining Maman’s clockwork plans, devoted your time to feeling less instead of more. 

But, in the same way she did most things, Laura threw a cog directly into the spokes of that wheel.

 

-

 

Laura doesn’t know you play piano. She goes unaware of most of the skills you’d developed to keep yourself entertained, because it was too much to keep friends when you knew full well you’d watch them wither and die and leave you behind.

The Silas dorms are utterly absent of even a baby grand, and Maman’s sprawling mansion the same.

Laura falls for you without a single Valse Sentimentale, and you’re glad for that even when the two of you are once again reduced to spiteful glares and avoidance of each other.

It’s not until you’re wandering the dark halls of the library that you find a piano, drowning in dust and surprisingly in tune.

Laura’s likely asleep, you think, feet landing on both the damper and sostenuto pedals when you sit.

There’s a single sheet of music on the board, slightly crumpled and torn at the edges, and even in the dim light (or lack thereof) you recognize it immediately.

 

Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, Opus 19, No. 4.

 

You don’t quite recall if this was one of your favorites, mind unable to conjure the melody without playing, so you do just that.

It seems to make sense at first why you don’t remember this piece, as the first five measures seem somewhat like the stock-photo equivalent of Romantic era, sounding more Classical than anything.

But that changes when you continue past the pause.

The simple “C#-C#-E-D-C#” melody immediately tugs at your heartstrings (which have been fairly inactive as of late) and you stop playing when you realize why.

Tears suddenly prick at your eyes as you sit there in the dark, your hands hovering over the keys, foot forgetting to release the damper as the most recent notes hang in the air.

It reminds you, swift and suddenly, of Laura.

Every last bit.

 

The simple melody that inexplicably manages to make your breathing go funny, the complimentary near-doubling by the left hand.

You’re simultaneously struck with the urge to both play this song over and over until your hands no longer work and your ears no longer pick apart the musical motifs and to throw it as far from yourself as you can.

When you finally force your hands into movement, you start over and will yourself to keep playing even as tears trace your cheeks and each repetition of the melody conjures up things it hurts to remember, things that hurt because you want them back so badly. Curling up next to Laura under thin sheets, her nose pressed to your throat; reading Camus with Laura’s head in your lap, one hand weaving absentmindedly through her hair; laying Laura gently on her back on the thin blanket spread across the solarium floor, her wide eyes full of distant stars as you take her apart.

  
The recapitulation of the frivolous little beginning melody hurts even more because _it’s where you are now_ , brought back to the way you two were at the very beginning. Reduced to words neither of you mean to spit at each other, the ghost of that lovely melody still lingering.

You scan the page and panic because _this is the way the song ends_ , without that melody you love so much.

You curse Mendelssohn as you near the end because _this can’t be how it ends, right?_

 

The last measures feel like the worst sort of resignation, your traitorous fingers tumbling over one another without error.

But in the penultimate bar, the ending chord is different than it was before. New, resolved, beautiful in an entirely different way.

And, as if whatever gods still watch over you are on your side for once, right as you play the last chord, you hear shuffling behind you.

 

“Carm?”

 

Laura’s voice is tired and thin and sleep-heavy, but it might be the best thing you’ve ever heard. You turn to look at her, damper pedal still holding the last dying notes.

And you hope so fervently that Mendelssohn is right, that this recapitulation has a different ending than the first time around.

“Hey, cupcake,” you whisper.

 

Her sleepy smile as she sees the piano and pads towards you, blanket of mysterious origin around her shoulders, feels dangerously like a confirmation of that hope.

  
After all, Mendelssohn did write forty-four more movements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment/kudos/otherwise freely express enjoyment!


	2. Le Cygne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura is made aware that she's falling hard. Featuring cellist Carmilla and little wisps of what could once have been called plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to continue these without particular correlation between universes or instrumentation, so sorry for lack of cohesiveness, but enjoy!

 

There is no note when you return home, no number.  
You're disappointed, because _how could you not be?_ It seems like all she's left you to remember her by is a name and a foreign perfume (how the company managed to successfully recreate petrichor is beyond you) lingering on your slightly rumpled sheets. You shuffle into the kitchen with a sigh, and that's when you see the envelope on the fridge.

Unmarked, inside it you find a theater ticket.  
For the San Francisco Symphony.  
In two and a half hours.

You pause a moment, uncomprehending, before scrambling for the bathroom, world-weary-bones and hunger completely forgotten.

You didn't know Carmilla played an instrument.  
That's what the ticket implies, right? There's no classical-music-fairy?  
She must be incredible, you think briefly, to be in the San Francisco Symphony.

It's unfair how the thought of Carmilla playing in the symphony, in orchestra-penguinistic-attire (though for the life of you, you can never imagine her in anything other than those damn leather pants) with her dark eyes fixated on crawling lines of sheet music, only makes her sexier.

-

You find a dress you hope is fancy enough for this sort of event (you're not really the sort for pearls and tuxedos, especially when you can't afford to frequent events that require such attire) and try your best not to feel out of place.  
Something about this feels strange- after all, it's only been a night. Well, more than a night since you've been made aware of her (more than a night since you started to think about her more than you would like), but only a night since you entered each other's orbits, went from celestial passersby to mutual satellites.  
Now, you think, it's just a matter of gravitational force.  
But you'll gladly accept this, if this is Carmilla reaching out to you. Lady killer she may be, but you hope this is a sign that you're not just another conquest.

The usher eyes you incredulously, as though he can see from a glance that you don't know shit about classical music, and you wonder when he offers to show you to your seat if he's assuming you've never been here before, and you internally bristle, because _yes you have_ (the symphony sometimes shows movies and plays the score live and you weren't about to pass up the opportunity to see A Nightmare Before Christmas).

"Miss," he says, peering at your ticket, "you're in Loge seating; stairs are to the left, you're on floor 4."  
He looks somewhat impressed as he hands your ticket back, and you take some pride in that, even if you didn't actually buy it.

You wonder, as you sit down, if Carmilla had to pay for the ticket or if it was a performer perk. Whatever the case, you're grateful for the legroom. Not to mention, there's an exclusive bar on this level, which you can certainly get into.  
You glance briefly at the program: Selections from the Works of Camille Saint-Saëns.  
You wish that name meant something to you.

  
Within a few minutes, the buzz of conversation filling the hall begins to hush; strangers your seat is loosely sandwiched in between fall silent as the players filter onto the stage.  
You're don't see Carmilla among them, but flipping through the program you see her name listed as "Cello Solo" for the final piece, Le Cygne from Le Carnaval des Animaux.  
Amidst dying applause, the conductor ascends his podium and your mind blanks at the first downward flick of his baton, when the sound blossoms outward in a rush, every single performer shifting from relaxed but alert to utterly focused in an instant.

You thoroughly enjoy the performance, but it all feels like buildup to seeing Carmilla play. Maybe you're biased, you think, as she walks out onstage, of course in those leather pants because _of course_.  
You have no idea what to expect, but it feels almost magnetizing just to see her again, a satellite being pulled in too far by the gravity of the other. You wonder briefly if this is you becoming her moon.

And then she begins to play.

The melody is immediately beautiful, heart-wrenchingly so, but you're drawn in by her expression. Most of what you see of Carmilla is broodiness or purposeful (though effective) seduction, and while she pulls off the whole "Greek Goddess" thing flawlessly throughout, this is something entirely different.  
Eyes closed, she looks completely at peace, almost beseeching as her fingers crawl up the neck of the cello. She looks somewhere else entirely, unaware of anything beyond her hands pulling pure, unadulterated beauty from the cello, the faint sounds of the piano guiding her.  
She looks radiant.

The melody is quite possibly the most beautiful thing you've ever heard. It's hesitant and confident at just the perfect moments, sinuous and fluid; close your eyes for a second and you can immediately see Saint-Saëns' swan: long, arcing neck, gliding smoothly through mirrored waters and leaving behind shimmering trails.  
It's at the return to the beginning melody that you know you're going to cry, but the sting of tears in your eyes is cast so far into the background that it might as well not exist for you.

Carmilla's eyes flutter open then, eyes cast upward at the dark yawn of the ceiling, and you know she sees nothing.  
It's the most raw you've ever seen her, the most emotion you think she's ever shown, and that may be what actually makes you cry, tears slowly tracing down your cheeks as she reaches the last note.  
Her eyes close softly again as the sound fades, piano trailing off behind her

For a moment, there is absolute silence in the theater.

  
And then, thunderous applause as your exhale is swallowed up in a sob.

-

Your head is a foggy mess until you see her wading through the crowd in the lobby, gently batting away conversation, towing her cello case along behind her.

And there's a lot of things you want to say to her, like _holy shit_ and _you are perfection_ and _I can't tell the different between you and the sun anymore_ (you know, typical conversation), but instead, when she makes her way over to you, words having long since abandoned you, you just kiss her.  
Hands curling in the lapels of her blazer, pulling her as close as you possibly can.  
Hoping desperately that slanting your lips over here, that slipping your tongue into her mouth with a languidity neither appropriate for a public venue nor representative of the urgency you're feeling, will convey what you're trying to get her to understand.

Her hands, hands that wove together music that tore you apart, reach for you, too, the tangle of her fingers in your hair, her palm cool against your cheek wordless answers to a wordless question.

Affirming, accepting the fall of two mutual satellites into one another.  
Gravity proving too strong, too inevitable to escape.  
Falling out of orbit, never to return.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any suggestions for future songs, don't hesitate to comment or reach out to me on Tumblr (way-past-strange). These, so far, are purely based on my knowledge of playing the songs on the instruments familiar to me, but I'd gladly step outside my comfort zone.


	3. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura and Carmilla go stargazing *wink wink nudge nudge* OR in which I tried to write smut and most likely did not succeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song takes a bit of a backseat to, well, other things in this one, I'm afraid, but enjoy nonetheless!

You are centuries old (three point seventeen, to be exact) and world-weary. The seventeenth century, one you belonged to for only two years, was a fundamentally different time in nearly every facet of life, but even so, you’ve wandered the earth a long time.

You are not a virgin.

You don’t feel guilty about this. Expectations for proper conduct (not that you were ever great at that one) departed after the realization of immortality had taken some time to settle in your bones. It was an escape, a painkiller, something to take your mind off the world as it wheeled along and left you behind.  
The word promiscuity, has of course, changed in its severity over time (you observed it doing so), so by the standards of this mile-a-minute, forever-present-tense world, you do not come close to that mark.  
But you are not pure.  
In any sense of the word.

  
Then there is Laura.  
All of nineteen years old, self-censoring and naive and sugar-spun-sweeter than her slightly concerning diet. Holding onto the belief that the world is good (a belief you are accidentally helping to shred).  
For fuck’s sake, her cardigan has _rabbits_ on it.

And you’re terrified that you will ruin her.  
Even more terrified that you already have.

-

She leans into you, slowly extricating herself from the aforementioned, rabbit-strewn cardigan. Loose curls, honey-blonde and faintly flowery, ghost over your shoulder. Her breath tickles your cheek.  
"Race you," she whispers, and you're frozen a moment with surprise before you turn to look incredulously into the webcam, unable to stop the grin curling at the corners of your mouth.

 

You don't even need to cheat, you think, idly sifting through Mother's wine cellar. Laura has no idea where the solarium is, and up the staircase is a maze of rooms and dead ends oddly reminiscent of the Winchester mansion (though you're fairly certain Mother had no fear of ghosts).  
You hear her footsteps stamping about the halls as you spread a blanket on the solarium floor and pour two flutes of Dom Perignon, and by the time she finally bursts through the door with a loud "Aha!", you're sitting cross-legged on the floor, regarding her with a smirk as the triumphant look in her eyes fades.

She mumbles something about "cheating" and "vampire perks" but takes the glass anyway.

-

Some unknown amount of time finds you lying on your back, Laura pressed against you as you trace constellations far, far above your heads.  
You don't really think she's listening as you point out first Orion, then Canis Major, the faithful dog trotting at the hunter's heels. Scorpius, the beast that finally lay Orion low, spread across the stars for its impressive strength.

"Cupcake," you whisper, turning to face her, "still listening?"

She rolls so the two of you are face-to-face, noses an inch apart. Her eyes are wide, you can see even in the soft darkness. She smells like that familiar mixture of cinnamon and vanilla, and it makes your head spin.  
"Mmhmm," she says softly, "dogs and scorpions and all that jazz."  
Technically, she's correct, but that doesn't stop a laugh from rising into a hum in your throat.

 

  
You're not quite sure which one of you it is that leans in, or at least who does first, all you know is her lips, cinnamon and vanilla and champagne, are pressed to yours, and your ears are filling with static.

You're aware, dimly, that the atmosphere of this is significantly different than before. The gingers are occupied elsewhere, not potentially about to burst into the door covered in blood or babbling about the anglerfish under the Lustig. No Zetas or Summers or Alchemy Club or even suspiciously-satanic-glee-club, just you and Laura and the faint light of the stars filtering through the solarium's glass-paneled roof.

 

When you gently push her onto her back and her breath hitches, you're reminded rather suddenly that Laura is a lot more innocent than you.  
You feel afraid to move, afraid any touch heavier than feathers will break her open.

"Is this okay?" You whisper, knowing no one besides Laura will hear you but still painfully aware of the silence the two of you are drowning in.  
Her response is to arch up and kiss you again, hands guiding your unmoving fingers to the zipper of your dress, _hmmm_ ing affirmation into your mouth.

And then it's your turn to lose your breath.

This isn't the first time you've seen Laura in some state of undress; after all, you have been roommates for several months now. The curve of her waist, surprisingly muscled stomach, soft lines of collar-and-hip bones- these are all things you've acquainted yourself with, eyes admittedly lingering as she would race around the dorm at ungodly hours (meaning any time before noon), rifling through drawers while half-dressed or dashing for the shower.  
And yet, this is different.  
Better.  
_Much_.

  
Your glances don't have to be abashed.  
Your fingers are free to map out all those curves and lines, allowed, invited, encouraged.  
It's an offer you don't think twice about taking.

 

You take your time, intending the sort of reverence you feel Laura is worthy of, and yet all it seems to be doing is unraveling her beneath you.

It might also have something to do with the not-so-newfound knowledge that Laura is dangerously ticklish.

  
You trace a line down from her navel, along a hipbone, and when your fingers start creeping up her inner thigh she tugs at you and kisses you hard, shaky hands tangling and twisting in your hair and what little clothing you're left in. Little noises, keening whines and breathless moans and gasps, build in her throat only for you to swallow. Her pupils are blown wide as you drag her underwear down her legs, surprisingly dark irises filled with the stars' dim reflections.  
And when you follow the path your hands took with your tongue, those high whines bloom upward into the quiet darkness.

Those whines become a full-blown moan when you push your tongue inside of her, her spine arching up, fingers still tangled hopelessly in your hair. She tastes, inexplicably, fantastically, dizzyingly, like strawberries, like a faint sea breeze, like vanilla.   
Your hands go to knead the muscle of her thighs softly, partially because her legs are shaking and partially because you're afraid you're going to be kicked if this continues.

When she comes, it's with a sob that catches in her throat and a surprising amount of silence, legs quivering like your mouth and hands are live wires, gaze turned upwards to the stars. Her fingers tighten and loosen their hold in your hair, again and again, almost painfully. You don't care.

  
You crawl back up to look into her euphoria-heavy eyes, and after a few moments she comes up on her elbows to kiss you slowly, unhurriedly, and after a few moments sits up fully, tongue slipping into your mouth as she pulls you closer.  
You shiver when her hands tug apart the clasp of your bra and slide the straps down your arms and your heart starts hammering when she presses her palms to your shoulders to softly push you onto your back on the thin blanket.

You're not self-conscious about your body, never really were, but there's something about the way Laura gazes down at you, eyes still a little hazy and more than a little lust-clouded, that sends sparks jumping and skittering in your blood in entirely unfamiliar ways. 

Maybe, you think, it's purely because it's _Laura_ and not anyone else.

God, you never want it to be anyone else again.

 

And it doesn't make sense that she should be any good at this, but you don't have enough cognitive reasoning to ponder the impossibility of her fingers when they're between your legs. No, it takes your last, fading shred of higher brain function to focus on biting back gasps.

You start to fail at that, too.

 

You fall apart faster than you have in _decades,_ and maybe it would be embarrassing were it not for the fact that Laura is _really fucking good_ at well, fucking. She leans down and kisses you again, a lazy tangle of lips and tongues and teeth and as you ride out your wave of bliss, vision returning, it devolves from an actual kiss until you're basically grinning into each other's mouths, but neither of you really care.

 

With a sated exhale, she collapses on the blanket (now dangerously askew) beside you. The solarium is all high ceilings and swathes of shadow and smells of dusty books (though there are none to speak of), and she curls into you there in the darkness, your mingled fervor cooling down along with your skin. You feel like two coals in a fireplace, nestled together in a sea of graying, fraying ash, the raw, angry oranges of a dying fire reduced to thin, twin glows in your bellies, dimming and flaring up now and again like pulsars.

 

-

 

You have no idea what time it is when you wake up (solariums aren't exactly an ideal sundial location), but you assume somewhere around three AM.

Laura's tangled up in you, arms over your waist and leg in between yours; you- a proverbial branch half-coated in lake-bottom silt, she- a proverbial fisher's line, proverbial hook fastened in your proverbial twigs during the throes of early sleep stages.

Reluctantly, you slip out of her arms, smoothing her now-mussed hair and dropping a kiss on her temple when sleepy, unhappy little noises work their way into her exhales at the loss of mutual body heat.

In the adjacent room to the solarium, you find an upright piano clinging to the wall. You, surprised Maman actually owned one, run your fingers along the ornate wood patterning above the fallboard. A Victorian Steinway, you think, even more surprised.

The bench creaks as you sit, and you wince, realizing you'll inevitably wake Laura, sostenuto pedal or not. 

 

As your fingers splay over the keys, the first song you recall is Chopin's Nocturne, Op. 15, F Major. 

A few measures into the simple, sweet beginning melody, you close your eyes, not requiring your dim visual perception for a piece you know so well. 

When you reach the first minor strains, a sudden heap of dark notes tossed upon each other like ocean waves, you pick up the soft pad of feet from a ways down the hall and falter for a brief second, but keep playing.

As the second swell of dark notes winds back into major chords, you think of Laura, spread-eagled beneath you, her eyes full of stars. Strawberries and sea breeze and vanilla with each little right hand turn and trill. The melody softens and slows from near-saccharine sweetness into the final notes, and you shiver slightly, the feeling of her hands everywhere still fresh upon your skin.

And as your right hand drifts upward along the last arpeggio, you feel the return of loose, honey-blonde hair (though they're less of curls by this point) over your shoulders, faintly flowery as she rests her chin on your collarbone and slides her arms around your waist.

"I didn't know you played piano," she whispers, low voice hovering next to your ear, and as your eyes open you think of all the badly adapted modern music she'll ask you to play, all the waltzes and sonatas you'll thread in among them. Her tucked into your side, nodding into the side of your ribcage as you point out middle C and guide her hands over the keys. 

You find yourself unable to stop yourself from smiling, the sort of smile that follows a series of sudden kisses tempered by elated surprise and a "So you're a giant black cat, huh?". The sort that belies sharp-edged canines, the sort you find that only Laura has been able to tug from you.

You find yourself smiling in the dark, with Laura draped over you, and think you might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an interesting one to write (it feels like a mish-mash of attempts at smutty things and half-poetry); hope you enjoyed! Feel free to request songs or other things you'd like me to write about, I promise I'll get around to them as soon as I can.


	4. Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura and Carmilla go to a private school of the arts and pine down a whole forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was requested by Ang and I was not expecting this piece to get to me this much, good lord. Enjoy!

You fall in love with the cello at age six, when Maman takes you to see Yo-Yo Ma play in Carnegie Hall.  
Right up until the moment his bow connects with the strings, your little mind is elsewhere focused: the sea of people towering around you, draped in black and white, their sentences oversaturated with monstrous polysyllabic things you don't understand. The too-bright lights and how your chair squeaks when you sit down. The itchy lace of your dress.

But it all melts away when the applause dies down and he begins to play.  
You remember being unable to look away.  
You remember your mouth falling open.  
You don't quite remember breathing.

  
It takes weeks to persuade Mother to find you a teacher.  
It takes her months to actually listen when you play, saying she can finally tolerate the sound of it.  
She doesn't come to your first recital.

But that's okay, you think.  
You just need to get better.  
Then she'll listen.

-

You fall in love with Carmilla Karnstein at age seven.  
The first time you see her, it's outside the Silas School of the Arts gates, her hand lost in her stern-looking mother's, looking up at the tall slashes of wrought-iron fencing, the other hand dragging along a tiny cello case.  
She's all dark curls and ivory skin and dark, dark eyes, red lips forever turned in a faint scowl. When she briefly glances at you, you feel heat crawling up into your cheeks like it never really has before, not around boys. You train your gaze on your flats as they twist nervously in the muddy grass of the schoolyard.  
When she looks away, you clutch your sheet music to your chest and tug at Dad's sleeve. He bends down and you go up on your tip-toes and whisper into his ear, "Do you think she's an angel?"  
He only chuckles and squeezes your hand.

And you wish for the first time ever that you didn't play piano, that you'd picked cello instead, just so you could be in her class.  
You watch her eat lunch by herself, all tucked up behind her pale knees in the corner of the lunchroom, and you feel like you should go over and talk to her but your friend Susan is saying something about the oboe and Lola is glaring at you for not listening, so you shake your head and look away.

-

You talk to Laura Hollis for the first time at eight years old, when your science class takes a field trip to the aquarium and the teacher piles all of you into the bus at seven in the morning.  
She's asleep in the back when you slide in next to her, cheek pressed to the window, exhales fogging up the glass, but when she wakes up she offers you a cookie.

  
In true third-grade fashion, you two are officially friends from that point on.

  
You spend the whole aquarium trip together in the back of the group, almost getting lost because Laura is mesmerized by the bioluminescent fish for a solid five minutes. You're more drawn in by her, her eyes wide and reflecting the glow of dangling anglerfish lanterns and drifting jellyfish in the dark exhibit room, little hands splayed across the glass.  
You tug her along by the hand when you realize the others have long since left, running to catch up, and when you finally find the group gawking over the tiger sharks, she doesn't let go.

-

When you're nine, Mom leaves.

It's a Saturday morning, the windows in your room displaying a sky-full of indecisive overcast, a heap of fluffy grey clouds that don't know whether to dissipate or drift about or empty their rain-heavy bellies onto the ground below.  
You pad down the hall and into your parents' room like you normally do on Saturdays, intending fully to burrow under the covers and leach off their body heat until they get up and you make pancakes.  
But Mom's side of the bed is cold and empty and when you sit on Dad's chest to wake him up, he's silent for a long time. There's a note on Mom's bedside table, and he stares at it for a while.

Then, suddenly, are tears in his eyes and you don't understand why because Dad doesn't cry, not ever. He pulls you to his chest, big arms tight, and says things that you don't understand, things about how _Mom is going away_ and _we won't see her again for a while_ but that _it's okay_ and _how about those pancakes, huh?_

It takes you two weeks to realize that she's not coming back.

-

You're ten when things start to fall apart.

Mattie's away at boarding school and Will cries all the time now and you want to help but the sound is grating on your ears and you have to practice, _you have to practice._ You don't have time to play with Will anymore, Mattie was always the one keep him entertained.  
Maman is in Germany and won't be back for weeks and the housekeeper is gone until next week. The house is big and drafty and cold and you're panicking, you know you're panicking, but you have to practice your etudes and Will won't be quiet.  
With shaky fingers you fumble for the phone Maman gave you last year, "for emergencies only."  
You remember her number by heart, but instead you find yourself dialing the number Laura wrote on your wrist in Sharpie the other day.  
It's long faded, but somehow you still find you remember it.  
Laura's voice is small and tinny and confused on the other end of the phone.  
"Hello?" She says, and the sound is such an immediate relief that you feel a wash of calm and, more significantly, exhaustion, seep into your bones.

You and Will stay with Laura and her dad for the next week. Her father doesn't even let you thank him, just ruffles your hair and takes your bags inside.  
Their house is all yellow-lamp-lit and cozy, the smells of fresh cookies and cinnamon heavy in the kitchen. It's nothing like home, you think, with its high ceilings and soulless white lights and granite countertops, though you feel a sudden sense of loss, like Laura's home is something once attainable for you and Will and Maman and Mattie, something forgotten and long buried underneath the pristine floorboards.  
You spend most of the first night marveling over every difference between your two lives- dinner with the four of you all actually in the same room, the way Laura's dad says, "Hey kiddo, wanna practice for a while? I can do the dishes," with no trace of expectancy as to whether or not Laura actually will (she does), actually tucking you and Laura in at night.  
"Goodnight, girls," he says softly before the light goes off with a soft click, and your heart hurts as you curl up there in the dark next to Laura.

-

You're eleven when boarding school starts.  
Dad hugs you in the car before you leave for so long your legs start to fall asleep, but you don't mind. You think you see him cry through the tinted bus window as you push your bag into the overhead and try not to think too hard about how you won't see him for four months.

The bus ride is longer than you thought possible, and you spend most of it asleep on Carmilla's shoulder or sharing earbuds and the candy she'd managed to sneak aboard.

You don't know if you've even been more comfortable than when you're lying with your head in Carmilla's lap, her fingers loosely sifting through your hair. Your legs are all tucked up and cramping and Perry and Su- _LaFontaine_ are squabbling in their strange way about something in the next row of seats and the bus interior is heavy with the chatter of your bored classmates and stale, filtered air. But Carmilla's fingers are gentle in your hair and she smells _familiar_ , like dizzyingly-perfumed-flowers and petrichor and warm night breezes and she's humming absentmindedly to the floaty Beach House song filtering through the shitty Apple earbuds you're sharing, you can feel it against the ear closest to her stomach, and as you close your eyes you can't imagine the downiest pillows on earth coming close to how comfortable you feel.

-

You're twelve when you realize you're screwed.

It's spring break and you and Laura are wandering the campus, looking for open practice rooms.  
You stroll the half-lit-halls pleasantly for a while as Laura tries doorknob after doorknob until she finds one and throws the door open with a squeal of delight, to the complaints of its old hinges.  
You wish briefly that you'd brought your cello as she pulls up the bench to the grand piano in the corner, tucking yourself behind your knees on a nearby chair, but you find you don't really care when she starts playing.

You always knew Laura was amazing at piano.  
She had to be; after all, Silas is a private school for the arts, but there's something so effortless about the way she plays, like she's pressing down the keys with feathers.  
You recognize the achingly slow strains a few measures in (Première Gymnopédie) and it feels to you like the bittersweet atonality of Erik Satie has never sounded so melodic as when Laura plays it, her eyes closed, windswept honey-blonde hair loose over her shoulders. You close your eyes, too, and imagine Van Gogh's starry swirls, infinite, hazy loops of undulating yellow and white in a sea of yawning cobalt, as the sound fades in your ears.

And then arms are flung around your neck from behind.  
"What'dya think?" She says softly in your ear, the scents of cinnamon and vanilla mingling with those yellow-white swirls; still lost, you only hum in response.

Laura's meant for somewhere like Juilliard, you think as she tugs you along behind her from the room, with a touch like that, the sort the finest instructors in the world can't teach, the sort you worked yourself to bloody and bruising fingertips for.  
And you realize that the part making you feel awful about that isn't that you're not good enough yourself or how disappointed Mother would be.  
It's how you wouldn't be able to be with her if she did make it.

-

You're thirteen when you have your first school dance.  
A lot of the girls in your class spend the week leading up to it talking about the boys they wish would ask them to it, and all you can think about is Carmilla.  
You don't let yourself think about _what if she asked you_ because by this point you're too familiar with how much it hurts to think like that.  
Still, you can't help yourself from coaxing Carmilla into buying a ticket and curling your hair and screwing your eyes shut and wishing so fervently you think the lightbulbs over the mirror might just crack.

You expect her not to dress up at all.  
At most, you think, she'll wear the single black dress you've confirmed that she owns.

Instead, she wears suspenders.

  
You think you spend most of the night staring at her, but what else are you supposed to do?  
You gave up focusing on anything but Carmilla years ago.

Some unknown time passes before the song switches from frantic and loud bass-heavy to something obviously intended for every hopeless romantic girl in the building.  
The A Team, by Ed Sheeran.

And you know it's shitty, and overdone, and Carmilla always grumbles about the top 40, and it's barely a romantic song, but you really love it.  
Like, _listening to it at 2 am thirty times in a row and crying into your comforter_ love it.  
As you watch your classmates roaming the dark gymnasium in search of someone to hold at arms' length and avoid eye contact with for the duration of the song (so romantic), you can't help the ache in your chest or the desperate static filling your ears.

And standing still in the dark while Ed Sheeran sings about winter cliches and pastries and angels, you're not expecting Carmilla to look at you without any trace of sarcasm, her dark eyes heavy. You're not expecting her to pull you close to her, her hands softly resting at your waist.  
But she does, and all you can do is string your arms around her neck and fall into her, nose pressed to her neck and breathing in flowers-and-petrichor-and-night-breeze, and wonder what it all means.

-

You're fourteen when you meet Ell.

She doesn't play piano or violin or harp; she plays guitar.  
Electric.  
The sort that buzzes and snarls and roars like nothing you're used to.  
She _doesn't do classical music_ , as she says, voice low and dismissive when you ask.  
She's bleach-blonde and unabashed and unapologetic and you can't for the life of you understand why it is she chose you.  
But you're sure as hell not gonna waste the summer trying to figure that out.

You do your best to drown thoughts of Laura in clear blue lake water.  
Ell is her antithesis, and maybe, you think as you watch her take a graceful swan dive from the low cliff's edge and disappear below the mirrored surface of the lake, she's exactly what you need.

But no matter how far down you shove all your raw messy feelings, the mental prickle at the back of your mind refuses to depart.  
Ell is your first kiss, pressing you up against a wall with her hands curling in your leather jacket and your eyes falling closed and the evening breeze ripping up into a roar in the leafy crowns of trees, and you try so hard to tell yourself that you don't wish it had been Laura.  
It almost works.  
You kiss her back.

-

You're fifteen when you watch Carmilla get her heart broken.

You won't pretend you ever liked Ell.  
You _will_ pretend that you not liking Ell had nothing to do with the fact that you've been in love with Carmilla since you were seven.  
Nope.  
Totally unrelated.

Ell is brash, bold as brass and unafraid of consequence. She changed Carmilla somehow; when she returns from summer vacation she wears aviators and her father's old leather jacket and she calls you Creampuff and Cutie and you don't like it at all.  
You miss the Carmilla that tucked herself up while you played piano and closed her eyes and dreamed of stars, the Carmilla that furrowed her brow and worried so loud it kept you awake, soft fingers and wide, dark eyes.

But it's still her, you realize over time.  
She's still your Carmilla, you're still her Laura.

And yet there's still Ell.  
Ell that plays guitar, strange, sparking, live-wire songs you don't recognize.  
Ell that wanders the streets at night and hops fences and seems angry for no reason at all.  
Ell that Carmilla falls for so goddamned hard, you can see it when she talks about her.  
Ell that makes your hands shake with jealousy because _she's_ the one Carmilla's following around like a lost puppy, _she's_ the one who got to find out what it feels like to kiss Carmilla instead of you.

Ell that breaks up with her over _text_.

  
It's a Friday night and Carmilla's crying, curled into herself under her blankets in the dorm. It's dark, and you can only just make out the faint area where the rumpled sea of black sheets draws together.  
You don't hesitate before kicking off your shoes and crawling in next to her.  
She reaches for you like you're the one tangible thing left in the abyss, like you're the pocket of air at the bottom of the ocean. You wish you were altruistic enough not to let your breathing be affected by that.

You don't talk about it that night.  
You just let Carmilla tug at you with shaking, cold fingers and whisper nonsensical things into your collarbones.

Two weeks later, you take a cardboard box to the coast.  
Swaddled in blankets and sitting in the sand, the two of you watch all the things that reminded Carmilla of Ell burn.  
You watch Carmilla's face, impassive, strands of dark hair fluttering in the sea breeze. Her sunglasses reflect the angry waves and the angry grey sky.  
And you hope she'll be okay.

-

You're sixteen when your teacher hands you Rachmaninoff's Cello Sonata in G Minor.

"An audition piece," he calls it.  
Your chance at a future in music, you call it.

When you slip your headphones over your ears and fall with a thump onto your bed to listen, you immediately recognize it.  
Yo-Yo Ma.  
Carnegie Hall.  
Itchy lace and stunned silence.

You fall in love with the piece, or rather, you did a decade ago when you heard it for the first time.  
As you listen to more and more, you realize that the cello and the piano are completely balanced throughout all four movements. Neither accompanying, neither dominating.

And you know that if this is to be your audition piece, Laura's going to play the piano part.

-

You're seventeen when Carmilla asks you to accompany her on piano for a piece and you almost cry.  
Actually, you do.

It's not a accompaniment, she tells you, that Rachmaninoff disliked the imbalance between the two instruments.  
It's not the Cello Sonata in G Minor with piano accompaniment, it's the Sonata in G Minor for Cello and Piano.  
You quite like the sound of that.

It's a lovely piece, you discover, and she's right. Played correctly, the piano and cello trade melodies seamlessly, embellishing what the other plays into something new and sending it back.

And if you cried when she asked, then your response to hearing her play the third movement is full-on bawling.  
You're little more than sight-reading the introduction, but you completely stop once she starts to play.  
There's so much emotion on her face, the sort you're rarely bestowed with. A wavering voice at the other end of a phone asking if she can come over, The A Team during a stupid middle school dance, getting her heart broken and watching traitorous belongings burn, and now this.  
There's one part about three minutes in and she's going over one low note, over and over, like she's trying to brand it into the cello, and as she whisper-glissandos down lower to draw out the next note, you feel tears course down your cheeks, but you don't move.

When she trails off the last note, she finally looks away from whatever universe (self-contained in the corner of the ceiling) she'd been staring into and looks confusedly at you, because you're still crying.  
And the words _I love you_ are sitting so heavily in your throat, weighting down your tongue, that you can't even speak.  
Instead, you draw your sleeve across your eyes and sniff and try to murmur "sorry" (it's unintelligible) and try to play along as she laughs and says something about how "you're killing me, Hollis" and returns to the beginning again.  
Your hands are still shaking.

-

You're eighteen when you take a plane to New York with Laura asleep on your shoulder, when you check into a hotel with only one bed with the softest sheets you think you've ever felt and before you can offer to take the couch for the night (it's late and you're both jet lagged) she huffs and near-drags you into the bed with her.

You try to stop the way your heart rate picks up when she pushes you onto your back, you really do.  
She curls half into you, half on top of you, and you wonder before you close your eyes if she's too sleepy to notice your heartbeat drumming furiously at the confines of your rib cage.

If she does, she doesn't say anything.

  
You play the piece better than you ever have before, and so, you think, does Laura.  
It's not her audition (that's in two weeks), but it's like she could feel you pouring your soul into every note and reciprocated in kind.  
The Juilliard judges, statues that they are, say nothing behind their tinted screen besides "Thank you" and "check your mail", but you aren't really focused on them.  
You're focused on your trembling hands and your weak knees and just how _fucking beautiful_ Laura looks under the stage lights.  
Auditions be damned, you think, this was about you and her.

  
You're eighteen and you've been in love with Laura Hollis for years and you forget just about everything else when you turn in the dark, narrow hallway and press her up against the wall and kiss her. Sheet music falls from her hands and cascades across the floor like shed autumn leaves. Neither of you care.

She tastes like cinnamon and vanilla.  
She tastes like everything you know and nothing you know.  
And she collapses into giggles when your hands slide down to her hips because she's horrendously ticklish and her laughter makes you laugh and suddenly you're just the two of you, laughing and pressed together in an otherwise dark and silent hallway.

You're eighteen and you've been in love with Laura Hollis for years and as you walk the six blocks back to the hotel, one hand on the handle of your cello case, the other swinging between you and Laura, fingers laced with hers, as she laughs, back arching against the hotel door as you simultaneously try to find the key card and kiss her, as she pulls you inside and down onto the dangerously soft sheets and as she gazes down at you with heavy, heavy eyes and proceeds to take you apart, you wonder why the hell it took you so long to do anything about it.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment/kudos/etc. if you enjoyed and if you have any requests, don't hesitate to ask!  
> Side note- do any of you think it would be better to format this as a series or keep them as within a cohesive work (I have no idea what I'm doing, honestly)?


	5. Sea of Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura's roadtrip playlist choices are not the best aka the Hollstein roadtrip AU I find myself wanting to continue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd expand my horizons because this song hit me hard, and why not? It's quite a bit shorter than usual, more of a tiding-over while I work on a longer-winded vignette. But it's still borne of obsessive listening and late nights, so enjoy!

The sky is swallowing itself up in darker and darker shades when you suggest to Carmilla that maybe you ought to start looking for a motel for the night. The car interior is losing the soft, indescribable scent of sunlit surfaces, replaced by cool, dry night breeze that smells of flowers in early summer. You don't mind the contrast but you find yourself shivering and she rolls up the windows wordlessly.

There's a sort of heavy tranquility between you as the car eats up mile after mile of dark, empty road. Your heart feels almost painfully full when you peek over the edge of your book at her, razor-blade jawline and regal cheekbones half hidden by windswept tangles of hair. Every so often, she turns and catches your glances with her own, and her eyes are deep and dark, like twin wells full of stagnant shadow. Neither of you speak, but various indie artists croon softly through the shitty stereo over even quieter thrums of guitar and trilling piano.

-

You reach the first building you've seen in an hour when the sky is slipping at last from deep purple into blue-black, the fingernail moon and the bright pinprick of Venus stark among the spidery silhouettes of trees. 

The motel sign flares up in a flash of neon in the windshield corner as Sea of Teeth by Sparklehorse comes on in a soft guitar-burst and a pitter-patter of drums. Mark Linkous' quiet lullaby-lyrics always seemed nonsensical to you, something slow and poetic about Venus and sunsets, but as Carmilla jerks the wheel a little too suddenly and the car veers into the parking lot with a distant crunch of gravel, you notice her breath growing shallower and the whispered lines seem to straighten out in your head.

_"Can you feel the rings_

_Of Saturn on your fingers?_

_Can you taste the ghosts_

_Who shed their creaking hosts?"_

You notice her crying when you hear, "Seas forever boil, trees will turn to soil," and you think, for the first time, of the hell she is in, has been in for _centuries_ , a forced observant of the continued universe, her hourglass forever turned on its side. You think of her, for the first time, like the Earth if all those fearful seventeenth-century church officials had been right about geocentricity, a small, static planet endlessly surpassed by silent, celestial neighbors.Her dark eyes suffuse with tears and you think of how those eyes are more ancient than you can imagine, how those eyes have seen things that don't dare haunt your worst dreams. But worse than the horrors that accompany bloodlust and a pair of fangs, you think, is being forced to watch life continue on without you, on and on and over the edge of a cliff you can no longer see.You think all these things as Sparklehorse sings of _stars_ and _summer's bleeding fangs_ and the buzz of the neon vacancy sign echoes faintly across the parking lot.

 

The lyrics fade in your ears, replaced by idling car engine and the faint sounds of Carmilla's breathing. The sorrow is much heavier than tranquility, pure pain rolling off her in waves in the compact space. You can see tears tracing those regal cheekbones and along that blade's edge of a jawline and you _hurt_ for her so badly it steals your exhales. You reach out and turn off the stereo, and because Carmilla's hands are balled in her lap and not likely to move anytime soon, turn the key and kill the engine.

-

She's curled into you in the dark of your motel room about an hour later, cold fingers pressed to your stomach, when she finally speaks again.

"That singer," she whispers, the words scattering over your skin, "he killed himself, didn't he?"

You _hmmm_ , the worst sort of affirmation. 

She laughs, but it's hollow and shaky and wrong. 

 

And maybe you can't give forever, because you (amalgam of bones destined to break) don't have it to give. But at least, you think, you can give her this for a while.

You'll take her to California, you think, if your shitty car can make it there.

And on the way there, you should probably re-evaluate your playlist choices.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment/kudos/etc. as you wish or request a song. I'll do my absolute best to write about it, though Debussy has got me a little backlogged on chapters-in-the-works.  
> My Tumblr is way-past-strange; don't hesitate to drop by if you have a request or enjoy my 2 am ramblings or just want to scream into the void with someone.


	6. Sursum Corda/Salut D'Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura feels very strongly/confusedly about Carmilla and makes many metaphors (youth orchestra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide which song was more the focal point of this, so I chose both. Enjoy!

You kind of hate Carmilla Karnstein.  
  
Unfortunately, you also kind of want to fuck her.   
\-   
  
You worked so goddamn hard to get into the Silas Youth Symphony: months of prioritizing practice over any hope of a social life, staring at your sheet music for so long the notes and accidentals seemed imprinted onto your retinas when you finally resigned to your exhaustion.   
You went through three containers of rosin and had to have your bow re-haired twice before you even submitted your application.   
  
You actually asked the judges for a hug when they told you that you were in (you got one).   
Dad was so proud he bought you a car.   
It was five months past your birthday.   
  
They were frighteningly strict about letting new violinists in, but _you'd_ made it. _You_ were good enough. It felt like the best thing you'd ever done.   
  
And then, right before the symphony prepared to go on tour in the UK, Carmilla Karnstein, with her glossy Stradivarius ( _actual fucking Stradivarius_ ) and her razor-sharp cheekbones and her infuriating grin, won the annual soloist competition, as well as a plane ticket and a guaranteed seat in the symphony the next season.   
Guaranteed.   
  
And maybe it would calm you down if she actually deigned to speak to you, but she's all cold and aloof and above you.   
You don't think you've heard her say five words.   
  
It's fortunate that her solo fits in so well with the rest of the program, Vordenburg says. For a full year, he's been piling on all these soaring Elgar pieces, and it just so happened that Carmilla won the competition with Sursum Corda.   
  
Why she picked the piece, you have no idea.   
It's beautiful to be sure, one of those graceful, spellbinding violin pieces that always sounded to you like the instrument was crying in the minor sections. Cast slightly in the shadow of all the flowery violin solos written before Elgar, but breathtaking nonetheless.   
And she throws herself headlong into it, you admit. It's possible the only time you've ever seen her face lose its scowl or vaguely-predatory grin. She looks softer, yearning, vulnerable.   
But it's a seven-minute song, and then she blinks the sincerity out of her dark eyes and the brooding sarcasm seeps back in.   
  
If you hadn't seen Carmilla play firsthand, you would not have pegged her as a fan of Elgar. She reminds you of Danse Macabre, of Dvorak's Requiem, of Erik Satie's Nocturnes.   
Beautiful, yet dark and confusing and chaotic.   
But instead she went for saccharine-sweet Romantic music, like roses hanging heavy with the weight of their own perfumed beauty.   
  
No, you don't understand Carmilla Karnstein. You're simultaneously impressed by and envious of her playing, both infuriated and oddly drawn in by her. If you were to punch her in the face, you're not sure what your weapon of choice would be:  your fist or your mouth.   
But, looking up at the chart posted by the door of the arts center, you think that maybe you'll have to figure it out pretty quickly before you do something really stupid.   
Because your name is printed next to hers in cramped Times New Roman under the slightly less cramped heading of "Roommates".   
  
The UK tour is four weeks long.   
You're going to be sharing a room with Carmilla for four weeks.   
_Exclusively_ Carmilla.   
  
You might not make it out of this alive.   
  
\-   
LaFontaine laughs until their face is red as their hair and they're collapsed on the theater floor as you scowl down at them.   
"It's not funny," you hiss as you help them up. "What am I going to do?"   
  
They take a moment to catch their breath.   
"Fuck her. Literally, and subsequently figuratively."   
They say it like they're Edison, unveiling his stolen lightbulb.   
  
You kick them in the shin.   
  
" _Ow_ , no, I'm serious," they continue, hopping on one foot. "Look at that jawline, Hollis. That is a jawline that will not text you back."   
  
You do, and sigh.   
  
"Oh, frosh," they say (you're a senior), as pityingly as one wary of more kicking can, "you really like her, don't you?"   
  
You don't respond, but you can imagine your face speaks enough volumes.   
  
"I'll think of something," they say, throwing an arm around your shoulders and ushering you to the door. "Really, I just can't believe you like her. Once you get over the whole broody-Greek-goddess thing, she's kind of an asshole."   
  
You kick them again.   
  
\-   
Carmilla, because of course she ended up sitting next to you, falls asleep on your shoulder two hours into the flight. Out the window, the distant patchwork landscape has been swallowed up in soft darkness, and more stars than you've ever seen in one place are all clustered together in the top left if you tilt your head.   
But when you tilt your head, she shifts and makes this little unhappy noise, so you stop. When you very cautiously move away the armrest, she further slumps into you and you swallow hard and sit on your hands.   
  
The seat belt light went off about an hour ago, but you're not about to risk moving. LaFontaine passes by your row with a shit-eating grin and a thumbs-up you're really glad Carmilla's not awake to see.   
There's still eight hours to go and you're utterly exhausted, but despite the best efforts of Bon Iver, you can't ignore the fact that Carmilla smells like petrichor and coffee and the ocean enough to lose consciousness.   
  
You must have managed it somehow, though, because you open your eyes again when you feel weight lifted from your shoulder and your travel playlist has cycled through.   
The cabin is dark and (mostly) quiet, but your adjusting eyes can still make out Carmilla as she stretches, catlike, before settling back down with a huff.   
  
You're not quite sure what possesses you to do it, but, fingers hesitant, you remove your left earbud and hold it out to her.   
A second passes and you almost regret it before she takes it wordlessly and you restart your playlist.   
  
Halfway through something soft and instrumental and barely audible, when your head is full of piano and sleepy almost-thoughts, she leans her head on your shoulder again, infinitely more cautious, infinitely more purposeful.   
  
\-   
The first venue is in London's tiny little Arts Theatre. Personally, you love the size; it feels so much more intimate to be so close to the audience, but Vordenburg spends the entire dress rehearsal complaining about acoustics.   
  
As Carmilla stands alone the next evening, awash in spotlight with only the pianist for company, she reminds you of a lighthouse, casting out continuous light around and around in the darkness, a message to any nearby. But you can't quite tell what message it is she's trying to send, and whether or not you're her target, whether she's trying to chase you away or bring you closer.   
You wonder if she can feel the same intimacy with the silent and spellbound audience, or whether she feels utterly alone.   
You wonder, as she closes her eyes and takes the first down-bow, if she's even coherent enough beyond what her fingers are doing to experience or acknowledge any emotion.   
  
You wonder if she thinks of you as much as you think of her.   
\-   
  
You were intrigued (albeit infuriated) by Carmilla Karnstein the moment she stalked through the theater doors, a whirlwind of dark hair and aviators and leather pants.   
You were crossing your legs fruitlessly in your seat from that first "Hey", low and raspy and resonating somewhere deep in your bones.   
  
But you think you fall in love with her when you open the door to your room and find her sitting on the floor, lit only by the street-lamp-glow from the window, playing Salut D'Amour with her eyes closed.   
  
If she's at all aware of you as you try to silently close the door behind you, she doesn't react. She has her mute on because it's late and the acoustics of a cramped hotel room aren't exactly great and of course there's no accompaniment but as you stand there and listen, you think that never before has anyone played it so beautifully. There's something about the tiny glissando she gives to each note of the melody, or maybe it's her frustratingly perfect vibrato, or maybe it's just that it's _her_ playing, but whatever it is, it's pulling at your heartstrings like they're not wound up around themselves in tight coils as you know them to be.   
  
You lean against the wall as she reaches the recapitulation and marvel at how she can pull the nuances from such a syrupy-sweet piece, how the combination of unwritten _con sardino_ and no accompaniment can make something as overdone as a song titled "Hello Love" seem subtle.   
  
  
After she stops playing, three things happen that feel simultaneous.   
She stands, sets her violin on her bed, and turns to face you. Her eyes are wide but you see no trace of surprise.   
  
"Hey," she says, voice barely above a rasping whisper.   
  
"Hey," you reply. You wonder if your conversations will always be this monosyllabic.   
  
Cautious steps forward, like a cat in the dark, until she's right in front of you. You inhale (petrichor and coffee and the ocean) like she's a drug.   
  
Her hand finds the wall beside your head, palm flat, fingers millimeters from the side of your face, and your head falls back with a faint thump as you gaze back at her.   
You're scared to move, scared you'll spook this cat in the dark that seems intent on hunting you down.   
You guess that metaphor insinuates that you ought to run away, but it's not like you're not afraid she's going to eat you.   
Well.   
Not in _that_ way, anyway.   
  
You find further metaphor-ization starting to fail you when she's this close. She mixes sin and innocence like they're cornstarch and water, forcing you to approach slowly so as not to come bouncing back.   
Non-Newtonian fluid, not a bad metaphor considering her dark eyes are boring into you at such short distance.   
  
Her other hand finds the edge of your jaw, cool fingers cupping your cheek. Your thoracic cavity decides this is the perfect time to rebel against your brain: lungs refusing to intake oxygen, heart sitting stagnant in your sternum.   
  
  
Your eyes drift shut when she kisses you, that hand against the wall pressing its palm against the other side of your face.   
She tastes like dark chocolate, so deep and dizzying it makes your head spin. She presses you up against the wall and you stay there, back arching as she slips her tongue into your mouth and over yours, muffling your moans as her hands find other places to visit.   
  
You're not quite sure of the order of events after that, whether it was you tugging at the hem of her shirt or if it was her pulling your legs up around her waist, but something leads to her pushing you onto your back on your bed and crawling up after you.   
She seems perfectly content, mouth nipping at your throat as you arch up against her, to lay you flat and press you into the mattress and keep you there (which you're more than okay with) but you feel a lot braver than usual. For weeks, she's been stamping herself into your skin, and it's high time you returned the favor.   
You summon your hazy thoughts and roll so she's underneath you, her mouth (previously occupied along your jaw) falling open to spill shaky exhalations into your collarbone.

 

You hope, with her legs around your head, that you’re not destined to be the girl that wistfully recounts her one-day’s-love on a modern love podcast someday. Carmilla tastes like coffee and the ocean (you can’t really taste petrichor, but you imagine that if you could, she’d be that, too) and you try not to let yourself think that she tastes like something you won’t ever have again.

You try not to think that maybe she’s like the pomegranates of Hades, that maybe you’re Persephone dragged down to hell.

Instead, you focus on all the little sounds she’s making above you, on trying to keep her hands fisting in your hair.

-

 

You’d think that sleeping with someone would signify subsequent conversation, but you find that you and Carmilla talk even less.

You eat, you sleep, you fuck. Sometimes it’s too late and you both just collapse into each other in her bed. Sometimes she pulls you aside backstage after concerts and, eyes clearing from some mysterious haze, kisses you until you can’t breathe and leaves you hanging onto the wall for support.

You can’t begin to interpret that.

 

You play venue after venue and she casts her lighthouse-beam out across the UK via Sursum Corda and you continue to wonder if she’s calling to you or if you’re just a notch in her bedpost (albeit one etched over itself several times).

-

 

It’s the last concert.

You’ve come full circle, back to London, joined this time by some choir whose name you’ve forgotten for some selections from Scenes from the Bavarian Highlands.

This means you spend about eighty percent of the concert slumping further and further in your chair while the exhausted-looking pianist accompanies piece after piece.

The sounds of the Lullaby fading in your ears, you watch as you always do as Carmilla smoothes down the front of her dress with slightly shaking hands and makes her way to center stage amidst a fresh wave of applause.   
She plays facing the piano as usual, which you imagine grieves Vordenburg to no end, eyes falling shut after watching carefully for her entrance.

You, as usual, lose yourself in watching her lose herself to the piece as it swallows her up in seven minutes of flowery embellishments made to sound like delicate tentativeness.

 

There is nothing tentative about Carmilla Karnstein, but she plays the part well onstage.  


She’s like a snake, you think, with slow-acting venom. High potency, high yield, no antidote. You can feel it boiling in your blood as she reaches the main melody again, like microscopic farmers slashing-and-burning your capillaries.

Her eyebrows quirk upward almost questioningly through the last few trills and as she fades out on the last note, she opens her eyes to stare directly at you, eyes dark and suffused with something you can’t articulate but are more than acquainted with: staring star-struck down at you and up at you across a sea of rumpled sheets; half-lidded and sleepy and more bemused by than angry with the thin bars of sunlight peering through the hotel windows, gazing back at you in a moonlit room with her hand pressed to the wall and the sounds of Salut D’Amour fading in your ears, simultaneously a few millimeters and a few miles away.

 

You’re screwed, you think as she stares at you.

Because right before the heavy, heavy silence is filled up with thunderous applause, you can feel her venom reach your heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave kudos/comment/otherwise express your thoughts! This one feels a lot less congruent, and took a lot longer to write, but it felt right when I finally got it all down.


	7. Chanson de Nuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate view of Salut d'Amour, in which Carmilla is basically just a pretentious sap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to Salut d'Amour was requested, and this happened somehow. Enjoy!

You wonder, when you see her, what the possible mental ramifications are for using a stranger as your muse.  
\-   
  
You're not exactly the biggest fan of Edward Elgar, but then again, no one really expected you to be. You can't imagine that death threats and scowls and sullen silence conjure up saccharine-songs in anyone's mind.   
But you found that you could get through playing Elgar's music without sounding utterly devoid of emotion by closing your eyes and thinking of Ell.

Sure, it was sappy and cliched, but so was the music.  
  
It worked just long enough for you to feel secure. You smiled while playing for the first time in years.  Mother's words didn't bite as hard as they used to.   
You decided to audition for that stupid solo competition after all.   
\-   
  
Ell dumped you the night of the competition final like you were a plasticky student instrument when you were still wide-eyed and coming off your performance high.   
You watched her go, bow slack in your hand, and felt buried, suddenly, in imaginary layers of old rosin-dust and fingerprints.   
  
When you tried to play later, cross-legged and eyes screwed shut in your room, without thinking of her, it sounded thin and shaky and wrong, like Van Gogh trying to create Starry Night with crayons.   
  
Elgar felt ever-more-distant, like his language of music didn't belong in your universe.   
His writings were etched into your memory, but you'd lost your translator.   
\-   
  
The arts center theatre feels cavernous despite bright yellow lights, cold despite the layer of warmth on the dusty air. Faces of the orchestra that you don't recognize turn upward at you, like foreign moons.   
  
You can feel yourself shaking as the director nods to introduce you, and as you take an eternity detuning and retuning your strings, you try to slow your downright-rabbitlike heart. How you're supposed to play it well without something to fixate on, you have no idea. You haven't managed to recreate a worthy rendition since that night, no matter how hard you tried. Not even Ellen Page worked as a muse.   
  
You don't have long to think about this, however, before your point-blank gaze is caught by a girl in the second row of firsts, slumped in her chair with her violin propped against her shoulder, and held. Your lungs expand and freeze, her wide, previously-bored eyes fix on yours, and you hang there for a seemingly eternal moment, suspended by something you do not know.   
  
When the director cues the pianist, you take one steadying glance over at her again before beginning. You wonder, infinitesimally, if this is crossing some unseen line.   
\-   
  
God, you've never played it like this before.   
Sure, it sounded good when you would play it for Ell, but never like this. You surprise yourself with the pure _warmth_ of it, and for a moment your hazy mind is alarmed by the unexpected sensation of intimacy.   
It's interaction of an unfamiliar breed; you don't understand how or why you feel so oddly drawn to this girl when you know nothing of her beyond wide eyes and slightly-infuriating attractiveness, but when thinking of her is making you play like this, you're not about to question it.   
  
You almost don't want it to be over, drawing out the final note as long as your bow will allow and ending with a flourish.   
The soft applause from the orchestra feels even more muted in your ears, like waves rolling just beyond the confines of this strange, not-yet-shredded bubble of calm.   
  
You look over at her one last time, and you feel like you should say something, explain, apologize, ask, but words won't knit together properly in your head.   
  
Instead, you bow, sheepish, half-sarcastic, and her eyes narrow.   
\-   
  
You think she hates you.   
  
You catch brief little glares from her, especially when she thinks you're not looking, angry little huffs when the director touts your skill.   
You'd be more affronted if she weren't so damn cute.   
  
But it's okay for her to hate you, you think, cute though she may be. You only need her from a distance, because getting involved with the last person that intrigued you enough to devote songs to hadn't exactly turned out well.   
  
Unfortunately, that plan goes out the window when you read the roommate chart by the door.   
\-   
  
You hadn't meant to fall asleep on her. Really.   
It's just, you'd been so tired, and you were drifting long before the two-hour mark, and her shoulder was that perfect mixture of soft and solid. She smelled like vanilla, and it made your sleepy eyes cross.   
  
You hide your embarrassment when you wake up by stretching, distancing yourself. She says nothing when you settle back down and instead, surprisingly, hands you an earbud.   
The cool, recycled air has you far-flung from tired now, almost restless, the soft scent of vanilla stimulating rather than soothing, so you try to focus on her music, minute after minute of songs you don't recognize.   
  
You hope she's asleep or at least close when you lean your head on her shoulder again. The only indication she gives of consciousness is a satisfied-sounding sigh and tilting her head back against yours, so you close your eyes and count your blessings.   
\-   
  
You're really starting to wonder if it's okay to be doing this when you arrive in London and the idea of sharing a living space with Laura Hollis becomes a reality.   
Artists don't usually sleep in the same room as their models, you think. That's all she is, right? Your model, of sorts?   
You allow yourself to believe that when you force your gaze to the closest wall as she saunters past you, shirt half-undone. You hear the soft sounds of clothes hitting the wall and swallow hard.

 

She's rapidly becoming your favorite fear, something silent and static-charged in your bones in ways you can't discern as good or bad.   
Ell would probably tease you for admitting you're afraid of a five-foot-two human dormouse.   
  
Huh.   
You haven't thought of Ell at all for at least a week.   
Her name feels a little strange, a little heavier on your tongue.   
You like it that way.   
\-   
  
This is getting out of hand.

 You don’t even _like_ Elgar.

 But, inexplicably, you find yourself reading his other violin solos off of shitty IMSLP PDFs while Laura’s out somewhere with the ginger oboeist with the mad-scientist grin for the night.

Sometime, you realize, after that first performance, things shifted and managed, until now, to escape your notice.

Now, you don’t think of her in order to play; playing makes you think of her.

Pathetic _and_ terrifying.

 

You memorized Salut d’Amour a few years ago at Mother’s request (demand) for some wedding or other, so you turn off your phone and close your eyes to play it.

 The sound of the door opening is dim and distant, but as she continues to stand there, you grow more and more aware of yourself. Your violin sounds thin and quiet, muted when the neighbors started banging on the wall, and doesn’t do enough to fill up the room. Her eyes brand you from the doorway.

  
When you lift your bow off the strings, it's with shaking hands. The fact you manage not to drop your violin trying to set it down is a miracle.

 She's leaning against the wall, watching you with those wide eyes. The last note is still hanging, somehow, between you. You think you might stay there forever if neither of you speak.

 Instead:

“Hey,” you whisper, one of the only words you've ever verbally exchanged with Laura.

(Mentally, you've been writing fucking _sonnets_.)

 “Hey,” she whispers back, immobile.

(Baby steps, Shakespeare)

  
You feel oddly predatory as you approach, her eyes every bit a deer’s in the headlights.

It's an odd reciprocation, you think. Maybe to her you're a panther, but if she's a deer, she's been tossing you up on her horns for weeks now.

You suppose that makes her a stag, but perfect metaphors be damned; your face is inches from hers. She still smells like vanilla.

 

You lean forward, going parallel to her slumped body, your hand falling flat against the wall with a faint sound, her head falling back just beside it. You hear her breath catch. Her cheek is warm against your palm, and you're a little afraid she's just stopped breathing. You might have, as well, but your pulse is still thrumming, bass-drum-like, in your ears.

You think it's you that kisses her, but you can't be sure. She falls into you like you're the ocean and she's cliff-diving as you press her against the wall, trying to fall back into _her_.

She's all soft skin and distractions, her tongue in your mouth, her hands under your shirt. When you pull her legs up and around your hips, you start to lose your breath, either from the new contact or from trying not to laugh because she's clinging to you like a goddamned _koala_.

 

You push her gently onto her back on her bed (best to avoid crushing your violin on yours) and take a moment to catch your breath before crawling up to join her.

You're one hundred percent on board with letting her be a pillow princess for now, but it seems she has other plans, shifting so you're underneath her and sending you gasping into the side of her throat.

 

You are _embarrassingly_ loud when her head dips down between your thighs, your hands tangling mindlessly in her hair.

You would worry, if you were conscious enough, that the way she's taking you apart is too permanent for you to put yourself back together.

-

 

You wish you could just talk to her.  
Why it's easier to go down on Laura Hollis than it is to ask her how she's doing is beyond you.   
  
You'd call her a drug, but that would imply that you're building up a tolerance, which you're not.   
She still steals your breath every time you touch her.   
You are playing Salut D'Amour a hell of a lot better, though.   
  
Laura's stopped using her bed by the second week, even for actual sleeping. The second night of the tour, you'd succumbed to jet lag early and woken up around two to find her dead to the world and burrowed in alongside you like some hibernating mammal.

You're not complaining.  
  
It feels strange, all of it. Not fleeting like you'd thought she had hoped for (and possibly vice-versa), and almost permanent sometimes, the way she looks at you.   
But still, you think you can taste impermanence on her tongue, like she's anticipating an end neither of you can see.   
You wonder if she thinks herself a mayfly, if she thinks the title of you and her includes the word "tragedy", if she feels like her chlorophyll is breaking down, her leaves starting to flush red.

  
You kiss her and hope to be evergreen.   
\-   
  
So this is it, then.   
The last performance.   
  
You never got over performance nerves.   
It's unprofessional, Mother always said, to go on shaking like that, but you were never able to quell that shivery fear.   
  
You pace nervously backstage during the first half of the performance, aware of Laura's occasional glance in your direction.   
You weren't expecting to hear Chanson de Nuit, though; subtly startled, you're brought out of panicky non-reverie.   
That brief little melody reminds you of Laura, you think, even more so than Salut D'Amour. You almost wish you were playing it instead.   
  
As the swell of the choir replaces the symphonic  wash, you find your hands are shaking a little less.   
  
You take a few (thousand) deep breaths and press your palms against your dress before walking out on still-unsteady legs to a rather unexpected roar of applause.   
Would people still clap for you if they knew how daunting the sound was?   
  
  
It's not until you're on the very last note that you look at her, and by then you've fallen deep into the belly of the piece, a place you so rarely reach.   
Your ears are filling with static as you stare at her, distant piano and hushed crowd and even your own playing falling silent. She regards you with wide eyes, looking more frozen than surprised.   
You wonder if you can create quantum entanglement just by looking at someone, if enough eye contact can make the Geiger counters click.   
It certainly seems so, you think, watching her almost float upward as your bow leaves the string.   
\-   
  
She crashes into you like the magnetic tide, rushing up against your iron shores, and you hold on for dear life because you're still not sure how to swim.   
  
"Hey," she says, hands curving around your face. She's vanilla and hesitation.   
  
"Hey," you whisper back. Her eyes sweep your face in rapid little movements, like she's trying to memorize you.   
  
When she kisses you, you try to taste permanent (though mostly, you imagine, you just taste like spearmint).

-

 

You were _supposed_ to actually ask her out then, but you don't truly muster up the courage until you're sitting in the dark airport terminal, waiting for a red-eye flight, a continuation of the already-eternal-seeming night. Most of the lights went off an hour ago, but the rows of black faux-leather chairs of Gate 27 are still bathed in a dim glow.

You had wondered if she'd fallen asleep with her head in your lap (she didn’t stir when you started to thread your fingers through her hair mindlessly), but at your words, she opens her eyes.

There’s a beat of silence as she stares up at you, curious, a deer approaching oncoming headlights.

Her mouth quirks up into a sleepy smile and she tugs your face down to meet hers. Her eyelashes brush your cheeks softly, like owl-feathers.

 

She tastes like too-sweet airport-kiosk-coffee and relief and you find that you no longer care about the consequences of letting yourself fall for your muse.

 

Because this?

This feels less like falling and more like flying.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to kudos/comment/etc. as you like (it really does make staying up until 2 am every time one of these happens worth it)!  
> The Debussy in the works, I promise; like a proverbial hen, I've been dutifully sitting one some ideas and I think one is hatching.


	8. A/N

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just an update, sorry

Oof, it's been a while, huh.

My apologies to anyone still checking in on this series, life-things took a nosedive for me about four days after finishing chapter 7 and until pretty recently, I didn't feel like I was in the right place to meaningfully add to the series.

I do plan to continue, and hopefully soon- I have some stuff in the works- I just wanted to clear up my absence a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be found at seafleece.tumblr.com if you want to say hello


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